


Crying Isn't Proper

by unjellify



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Crying, Gen, Narcissa POV, but a slight nod to drarry, not a lot of ships, this fic is my baby treat it well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:02:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27980046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unjellify/pseuds/unjellify
Summary: Narcissa Malfoy watches her son grow up.
Kudos: 11





	Crying Isn't Proper

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this one a while ago, back when I was still into Harry Potter - it's a cute little oneshot that I honestly really love!

The first time Narcissa heard her son crying was the day he was born. He had silvery blonde hair, and a tight little face, crying shrilly. She considered it to be one of the best things she had ever heard. Narcissa found herself wondering who he’d turn out to be, though there really was no doubt about it as he grew older; the boy worshipped his father, practically following him around on his coattails all day. 

He was nearly as enamored with Narcissa, of course, for the love and affection she bestowed upon him every day could be considered stifling. However, it was still clear to her by the time he turned four, exactly who he was. He was demanding, with what words he spoke, and tried to sit up straight like Lucius, even copying his handwriting off of a form he had snagged off of his father's desk when he was learning how to make letters. 

He cried, still - when he fell down some stairs when he was two, when he fell off a broomstick at five, when his father snapped at him one night instead of taking the time to be patient towards Draco’s eager questions that his six year old head had conjured up. 

And each time he cried, he would run over to her with his little legs and collapse into her arms.   
Then came the part in their lives where Draco cried very little, and talked to her even less. His father had just been promoted, and Narcissa walked in on them many a time, both bent around a table, for Lucius was allowing Draco to pick out who the ministry laid off. Draco considered it to be the highest of honors; he was barely even nine, after all, but to his young mind, ministry officials should be prim and proper, and neither crying nor caring for one’s mother was very prim or proper to him.  He began to push off her hugs, roll his eyes at her smiles, and follow Lucius around more like an estranged puppy dog rather than an admiring son. 

Lucius would seemingly heed her laments, telling her that he’d discuss it with his son tomorrow, but then tomorrow came and there they were around the table again, just like all of the other times he had told her to  _ just wait for tomorrow. _

Draco cried in front of her for the first time in years, the day at platform nine and three quarters. He cried as he hugged his father goodbye. He wiped his tears off quickly, though, then stalked past her, boarding the train with only a second glance to spare for Lucius. She waited, head held high and heart beating numb, watching as the train sped away from them both. Lucius had slipped his hand into hers, and only when she stopped trembling did she realize she had started. 

Then Draco was home for the summer. He had cried, once, when his grandfather died. Draco had hugged Narcissa at the man’s funeral, and Narcissa felt guilty to say that that day was the happiest she had felt in a long while. 

He was off to school again. This time, at the platform, after making carefully sure that no one was watching, he had allowed her to kiss his cheek goodbye. He had even written her a few times- mainly to reassure her that he didn’t need to be sent home from the castle just because of some measly little monster that went around petrifying children. The last letter she received from him that school year was the request that it would be only her, picking him up from the train station. He cried the moment he stepped foot into the manor, that year- he had ran to his father’s study and tore through his drawers until he found the mangled diary, ripping uselessly at the pages and ignoring Lucius’ harsh words for the entirety. 

Then, he had cried again that night, this time collapsing in her arms, choking over his words, about how his own father could’ve killed the Weasley girl, and that Granger, and  _ Potter. _ As she was stroking his back, Narcissa had frowned as she realized that maybe she wasn’t so sure about who her son would become. 

At that moment, he seemed to be condemning his father, at least for the night, rather than following him around until he was old enough to become another version of the man. Narcissa didn’t want to feel relieved at the thought; she really didn’t, but she couldn’t help to hope that her son would turn out to be more caring, more genuine than her husband. 

The school year was starting again. This time Draco hugged her, and carefully stepped away onto the train. The various families around her were wishing each other safety, as Sirius Black was newly escaped- but Narcissa knew he was nothing to worry about. She got more letters from him in two weeks than the previous years combined, when the hippogriff had attacked him. She was amused by his dramatics- but something in her vaguely wondered if he had cried. If he had needed his mother. 

When he returned home for the summer, Lucius had been furious, after finding out that Remus Lupin was a werewolf. He contacted the minister, demanding Albus Dumbledore’s removal, and the werewolf’s death. Then Draco had nervously told him that Professor Lupin was the best teacher that he had ever had, and Lucius had reluctantly withdrawn his complaints. 

The next year at the Quidditch world cup, amidst the hexed muggles and the fire blazing around them, Narcissa and Draco fled to the manor. Lucius remained absent. Both of them cried that night. 

September first, at the platform, Draco hugged Narcissa tightly and strode away without looking back at his father. Lucius stood and watched as the train sped away, his eyes as cold and hard as steel. He had jerked his hand away when Narcissa tried to reach for it. 

Near the end of that school year, they sat in the drawing room. Lucius had asked for another cup of tea. Narcissa obliged, walking into the kitchen to get him one, and returned to find his chair empty. 

He got back the next day, and told her haltingly that the dark lord had returned. 

Draco had rushed to her, the day school ended. The next few nights were spent bent over his bed, rubbing his back while he recounted exactly how glossy Cedric Diggory’s eyes had looked from his spot in the stands. How if he hadn’t charmed those pins, Cedric somehow wouldn’t’ve been motivated enough to win the second task, which would’ve somehow prevented his untimely death.  Narcissa privately thought this was rubbish, but let him cling to her all the same. 

The day Harry Potter got expelled was the day the dark lord gave Lucius an ultimatum. Draco was to carry out the murder of Albus Dumbledore, or they would all die. 

Narcissa hated that she would rather die than her son turn into a murderer. 

Draco had cried, when he found out. Narcissa could hear his sobbing through his bedroom door. 

The year ahead was full of triviality. Draco complained that Harry Potter was up to something, bragged about how he had been made a prefect  _ and  _ a member of the headmistress’s private club, and whinged about how utterly useless Crabbe was at chess. 

Then her husband disappeared again. Her cousin died. Draco truly did blame himself for that one- if he had only held onto the mudblood better, they couldn’t’ve even made it to the ministry, and then Sirius wouldn’t’ve gone there and Aunt Bella wouldn’t have killed him. Narcissa found herself crying right along with him.

Draco turned sixteen. He left for Hogwarts again, this time smiling grimly at her before turning on his heel and walking away from her and Lucius both.  That year, there were tear stains on two of his letters. First, a few, on the one describing how he had accidentally killed a bird in repairing the Vanishing Cabinet. Then, quite a lot more than a few - speckling the letter where he told her that he had been successful like powdered sugar on a donut.

Then, she stopped hearing from him at all. 

Severus Snape had told her privately, how her son had reacted when faced with the headmaster. The relief first stemmed in her stomach, and blossomed up into an ecstatic sob. 

Her son wasn’t a murderer. 

Draco didn’t return to school the next year. 

Voldemort didn’t return to wherever he had been hiding out before. He instead stayed with them. Draco didn’t cry anymore, not with him in the house. 

Harry Potter lay dead in the middle of the clearing. Narcissa stepped quietly towards him and slipped down into a crouch. She ran her hand gently down the boy’s face, wiping away a stray tear that was trickling down his cheek. He was Draco’s age. She could remember her son writing to her, time and time again, about how horrid he was. He didn’t look horrid then, though, with his lips parted and his brow relaxed. Her hand crept beneath his shirt, and lay to rest on top of his heart. There, Narcissa felt a steady pounding against her palm. 

Swallowing, she leant down even more, untucking her hair from behind her ear so that it fell in one dark curtain, shielding them both from the onlookers. 

“Is Draco alive? Is he in the castle?” 

She waited with baited breath, the sound of her own heartbeat nearly drowning out the returning, 

_ Yes. _

An unidentifiable weight simultaneously lifted from her shoulders and struck the air out of her, and she gave his chest a light squeeze, nails gently sinking into his skin. 

She pulled away. 

“He is dead,” her own voice rang out, sounding stronger than she felt. 

The resounding cheer made her want to be sick. She hardly had to try to imagine them cheering over her own son’s death, as they no doubt would’ve if they knew he had failed. 

Narcissa followed them slowly back to the castle, and her eyes rested on a boy who grew up to be something great, leaning against the castle wall, his silvery blonde hair moving gently in the breeze. He was crying.


End file.
